Last Kiss Goodnight

by Teresa Driscoll

  ‘I’m working on the pedals and sorting out some of the keys,’ Geoffrey offers sheepishly. ‘Obviously it looks a little alarming. Being a grand, I mean. But it’s all very scientific. Pretty straightforward really.’

  Maria is shaking her head in disbelief and takes a deep breath – passing the poster to Geoffrey.

  ‘We’re taking over the Elizabethan fair for our campaign.’

  Matthew joins Geoffrey to read the poster – both frowning.

  ‘I have to put it on the record that I am not at all sure this a good idea,’ Martha interjects.

  ‘Oh, come on, it’s brilliant. So long as we keep it under wraps. We can harness the history theme. You know – how important the past is. How much we owe to our heritage. There are some fabulous pictures of the quay from way back, which we can get blown up for a display. And I thought we could get Elizabeth the First to do the honours… put the last leaf on the tree, I mean. And was wondering’ – she turns to Matthew – ‘if you could rustle up some Elizabethan music? Greensleeves. Stuff like that? There’s a brass band for the procession, which doesn’t really fit, but you could take turns… ’ Gabbling now – her mind apparently in overdrive.

  ‘But they use Market Square for the fair, don’t they?’ Geoffrey looks puzzled.

  ‘Exactly my point.’ Martha is glaring at Maria. ‘The police shepherd the route.’

  ‘Normally, yes. But not this year. I’m going to sort it all. You’re not to fret, Martha. It’s the perfect publicity for the campaign. We’ll just need a piano outside. In one piece preferably.’ She is sighing again at the Steinway parts strewn around the floor, shaking her head. ‘But not a word to anyone? OK?’

  ‘You know they’ve announced the new name?’ Geoffrey looks anxious as he shows Martha and Maria the latest copy of the local paper. The story confirms their worst fears. The council gaining the initiative.

  The new name has been selected from the competition entries from hundreds of primary school children. Millrose Mount Village is to be renamed Seaview Manor, with the building company setting up a new subsidiary to manage the conversion and the new quayside project.

  The council leader is pictured with a crowd of excited schoolchildren holding a banner for the new name. His quote boasts that simplicity is the strength – the new name summing up the key benefit of life in the new-look Aylesborough-on-sea.

  ‘Life with a “view of the sea”.’

  ‘Seaview Manor, my arse.’ Maria throws the paper back onto the desk. ‘Forgive my language, everyone – but this is war.’

  38

  He is wearing a new shirt. And at first Kate is completely thrown by this.

  ‘Sorry. Am I too early? God – you’ve cut your hair.’

  ‘Yes. I fancied a change. And no – you’re not early. Come in.’ She is used to knowing all his clothes and it hits her inexplicably hard as she closes the door behind him. Such a small thing. And yet such a huge thing. Just a blink ago that she was in charge of the laundry; knew every single item. At their last meeting, he wore her favourite shirt. So that, as she leads him through to the sitting room, she is absorbing the large and unfamiliar checks of blue and black and thinking of all the shirts she does know; of a hundred baskets of washing and standing at the ironing board, chatting to him in that previous life. Processing the significance.

  She’s cut her hair.

  He has a new shirt.

  He’s slept with someone.

  She’s slept with someone.

  ‘I’ve made a pot of coffee. I’ll bring it through. Martha’s out – down at the quay with Maria and Wendy. Drawing up more battle plans.’

  ‘Oh right.’ He is still staring at her hair as she heads off to the kitchen. By the time she rejoins him with a tray, he is sitting in his favourite high-backed leather chair. ‘Mugs would have been fine.’

  She stares at the tray with its cups and saucers. The milk jug. ‘I was nervous.’

  ‘Me too. I bought a new shirt.’

  ‘So I see.’

  Ten seconds of silence. Thirty.

  ‘It’s nice. Suits you – the shirt.’

  ‘Thank you. And the hair… ’

  ‘I’m still getting used to it. The wind around my neck. Had to buy a scarf.’ She tries to read his eyes. ‘People seem to like it. Once they get over the shock, that is.’

  ‘I miss you, Kate.’

  ‘Don’t. Please.’

  ‘No. I need to say this. It’s just I’m so glad you called. I was scared to death that you wouldn’t want to speak to me again. I’m so grateful for you ringing— ’

  ‘Stop it, Toby. I mean it. You have nothing to be grateful for. And you are not going to like what I have invited you here to say.’

  All last night she lay in bed trying to come up with the right words for this; practising it in her head. But there are no right words. No way to soften this.

  ‘I shouldn’t have rushed off the way I did, Toby. When we met before. The truth is, I was being a complete coward. And now it’s my turn to come clean and your turn to be angry at me. Because the truth, Toby, is not good. The truth – the real reason I rushed off wasn’t just anger, or the shock at what you told me, but shame. Because— ’ She lets out a little huff of air. Looks away to the window and then back at him. ‘I have no idea how to say this. But the truth, Toby, is I did exactly the same thing and I didn’t have the courage to tell you.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I slept with someone else too, Toby. When we separated. A one-night stand. Like you. Ridiculous. A complete madness. Just sex, I suppose. Madness. After I asked you to leave.’

  It sounds even worse out loud. The shock on his face is all-consuming; much, much worse than she imagined. As if he has no way to process this.

  ‘You are kidding me? No. You’re just saying this to get even? To hit back at me.’

  ‘No, I’m not, Toby.’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’ Standing up. ‘No… No, Kate. I don’t believe you. I mean, we’ve only been here five minutes. Who the bloody hell do you even know— ’

  ‘It doesn’t matter who. It was once. It was a mistake – and I am very sorry. And very ashamed. But let’s not forget you didn’t seem to have any trouble finding someone… ’ She wishes immediately that she had not added this. The hypocrisy of this dig.

  He shifts onto the other leg, blushing, and then turning his back on her, pacing over to the double doors, looking out onto the garden, hands on his hips.

  ‘This is… Jesus, Kate. I just wasn’t expecting anything like this.’ Turning back towards her, scraping his fingers through his hair. ‘I mean, I know this is irrational and hypocritical. I can see that. But I just feel – I don’t know… Jeez.’

  ‘Sit down, Toby. Please. There’s something else I need to tell you. Get it all over with.’

  For a moment he doesn’t move – the hurt in his eyes awful, reminding her of that night. That terrible, terrible night with the police and the hospital. All the flashing lights. And the uniforms.

  ‘Please sit down.’

  She hears the air sucked slowly into her lungs but it doesn’t help. ‘I had a scare after this one-night stand. Which is the other reason I panicked and didn’t come clean when we met.’

  ‘Scare? What do you mean “scare”? What kind of scare? Christ – you didn’t pick something up, did you?’ Finally he sits.

  ‘No. I didn’t pick anything up, Toby. I’m not entirely stupid. Oh God – this is so terrible, having to say it out loud.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘We did use protection, but my period ran late. For a couple of weeks. For a few days – a very short time – I actually thought I might be pregnant. I’m not. Thank God. But I felt I should tell you everything now. I owe you that.’

  His face changes – taking in this new significance.

  ‘And I know what you’re thinking right now. The enormity. And don’t think I haven’t felt exactly the same about it. I decide I can’t be with you because I don
’t want any more children and then this.’

  ‘So it was definitely a false alarm?’

  ‘Yes. Stress, probably. That’s what Martha thinks.’

  ‘You told Martha?’

  ‘I had to tell someone. I was beside myself.’

  ‘Right. Jesus.’

  They both stare at the coffee going cold in front of them.

  ‘I don’t know what to say, Kate. I just don’t know what to say.’ His face says it instead; that he is now more fully processing that other version. Her carrying someone else’s child after all those nights. Night after night. Side by side. Her not letting him touch her. Shrinking away. Night, then.

  Only now does she feel wet on her cheeks, using her sleeve to wipe the damp. Sniffing.

  A long time seems to pass in which neither of them can think what to say next. Do next.

  ‘I’m going to my parents for a bit, Kate. Couple of weeks. All arranged. I thought it would be a good thing – to regroup. Also to step away from this council project. It’s getting intense on the council side. Not nice. So I’ve handed it all over to Mark. I’m keeping right out of it.’ He is speaking in his business tone.

  ‘Thank you. They’re having a rough time. Maria and Geoffrey and Wendy. They’re nice people.’

  ‘So I hear.’

  ‘Toby. The thing I really need to tell you— ’

  ‘I think we’ve both probably said enough, don’t you?’

  Kate wipes at her face again and plunges on. ‘This one last thing I need to say. What I haven’t told Martha, and am struggling even to understand myself, is that when I found I wasn’t pregnant, I thought I would just be relieved. I mean – no one wants to be in that situation. To contemplate having a baby like that. And it would have broken your heart. And mine. And I was just praying and praying that it was a false alarm. But when I finally discovered that I was in the clear, I didn’t feel how I thought I would feel at all.’

  ‘I don’t understand. What are you saying? You’re saying you really care for this other man?’

  ‘No. No. Not that. Of course not.’

  ‘Then – what?’

  ‘Oh – it doesn’t matter.’ Kate isn’t even sure herself what she is trying to say. Wishes she knew. Could think more clearly instead of all this confusion.

  And then Toby’s expression changes slightly. Thinking. Thinking… Glancing away. Then back.

  ‘So, are you saying you feel differently now? About one day having another child?’

  ‘No. Not exactly. Oh, I don’t know. God – I don’t know what I’m saying. I shouldn’t have mentioned it. Said anything. I don’t know what I think.’

  ‘No. This is important. It’s important we talk about this, Kate.’

  ‘But isn’t that the problem? We’ve talked about it for hours and hours, Toby. Over and over. Round and round in circles. You know that you want to have another child one day. I can’t. It’s why I need to let you go.’

  ‘But why so sure, Kate? It’s not even been a year. Why do you feel so certain you have to punish yourself forever? For something that wasn’t your fault?’

  ‘It was my fault.’

  ‘It was not. They’re taking the ferry company to court. For the barrier. They knew it was broken. They were supposed to cancel the crossing. They should never have— ’

  ‘Oh, stuff the barrier, Toby. Stuff the court case. Nothing is going to bring him back. And I’m not like you. I can’t just replace him. I just can’t do that.’

  And then Toby’s face is suddenly black. With an anger she has never seen before.

  ‘You think that’s what I want? To replace Daniel? You really think that’s what I think? Oh, Jesus – Kate… ’ His voice rising and rising. ‘Are we really that far apart now? That you think I think Daniel can be replaced? Fuck me, Kate. I mean – I know I’m not great with words. I know I do the bloke thing – hold it in. But I can’t believe you would think that of me.’

  She just stares. Taken aback at this new anger.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Kate. Do you not know that I think about him all the time? Every day. Every night. Eyes open. Eyes closed. That I don’t want to stop thinking about him. Why would I want to stop thinking about Daniel? You seriously think that’s why I want another child? To let go of Daniel? Bloody hell, Kate. No one has another child because they want to stop loving the first one… ’

  He stands. ‘I’m sorry, but I need to go. I can’t do this any more. I’ll be at my parents if you need me.’

  39

  Matthew has never met a journalist before and has only clichés in his head. Occasionally reporters crop up on Columbo and Ironside – programmes Matthew once loved to watch with his mother. Nearly always pushy, the fictional journalists. Getting in the way. His research into the exposure of the Millrose Mount scandal paints a similar picture of Ross Tyler, the television reporter who finally broke the story. Pushy. Driven.

  It wasn’t hard to track him down. Still a freelance – listed in London. Always looking out for new stories. And this is what worries Matthew.

  Even in that first phone call, he felt paranoid. ‘You’re not recording this, are you? It’s just I need to speak in confidence. I don’t want this on the record. Is that the right phrase?’

  Matthew outlined only briefly that he had personal reasons to know more about the Millrose Mount investigation and he wondered if it was possible to meet? Called himself Alan White. Heaven only knows where that came from. He had a teacher in primary school called Alan White. Yes. That was it…

  Ross Tyler explained the Millrose Mount story was pretty much closed down now and was instantly fishing for Matthew’s true motives. He was sharp, which put Matthew on edge – explaining that the story had pretty much taken over his life for a while. But that was four years ago. It had put him on the map in investigative circles, securing him a few contracts, but they had since dried up. Ross said he hadn’t actually liked to think about the wretched place. Millrose Mount’s closure in 1973, a year after his film, had been a full stop. Mission accomplished.

  ‘Though I’d be happy to talk with you, Alan. Where did you say you are at the moment?’

  The café Matthew suggested was just half an hour from the railway station in Ross’s home town. An hour on the train from Aylesborough. On his day off from the piano shop.

  And now here he is. In this rather tatty café, not a patch on Maria’s place, with this tall and very confidant journalist stirring sugar into his tea.

  ‘So then, Alan. Millrose Mount. You reckon you had a relative there, you say?’

  Though the café has only three other customers, Ross has lowered his voice and Matthew leans forward to cup both his hands around his own drink – bitter-smelling – suddenly feeling very out of his depth.

  ‘I don’t know that for sure. It’s something I’m looking into at the moment. But it’s possible and so I’m worried about the stories, the implication in your documentary about— ’ He pauses, weighing up how best to explain himself without giving too much away. The newspaper review of Ross’s TV documentary had shaken him – a batch of cuttings obtained through the library. Not just the appalling neglect the programme exposed but most especially the allegations of sexual as well as physical abuse. ‘What I’m interested in, Ross, is the mention that babies may have been born at Millrose Mount. Following the abuse allegations.’

  Ross takes a sharp intake of breath, tilting his head.

  ‘So you think you might be one of those children?’

  Matthew is shocked at the directness.

  ‘No. No. Of course not. What I’m asking here is what hard evidence you had. From all the cuttings I’ve read, the documentary didn’t seem to spell it out. Hard evidence about the babies.’

  And now Ross is shifting physically in his seat. Bristling. He reaches for a second sachet of sugar and rips the corner. ‘Look. We wouldn’t have put those allegations out there if we didn’t have evidence. Trust me – if people saw half of what I saw, they would have ke
pt their criticism to themselves.’ Some of the sugar has now spilled and Ross uses a napkin to sweep it into a little mound. ‘There was at least one young patient who had a baby at Millrose Mount. All confirmed by her doctors. She said the father was a male nurse. An assault, she claimed. We had no reason to disbelieve her. The child was taken into care then adopted later.’

  ‘So why wasn’t that in the documentary?’

  ‘She was very unwell. Unstable. Hardly surprising, poor soul, but in the end our lawyers felt there were consent problems. That it might rebound on us to include her full details. Given her mental state.’

  ‘So just the one case?’

  ‘Only one that we confirmed but there were plenty more stories and rumours, going way back. Some said it was just lack of supervision – that there were unchecked relationships between patients, and also patients and staff – but the allegations of abuse went way back. There was a previous inquiry in the 1950s – guy called Wesley Clarke. Very decent chap. But his recommendations were pretty much ignored. His report buried. Four members of staff conveniently resigned to avoid disciplinary action. All hushed up. The authorities were able to hide behind patient confidentiality. We reported what we could, but we weren’t able to get hold of all the files.’

  ‘So the case that you did confirm… ’ Matthew finishes the last dregs of his awful coffee, heart pounding. ‘What was the name?’

  ‘You know I can’t give you that.’ Ross stirs the remaining sugar from the sachet into his tea, eyebrows arching. ‘I don’t even know your real name.’

  Ross finishes his drink, Matthew sitting in silence before pushing away his own empty cup to suggest a walk. Ross says he knows a nice park nearby and so Matthew nods.

  The park has an impressive entrance with enormous wrought-iron gates, flowers and leaves shaped expertly around a central date, 1902, then a winding path through an avenue of oaks. It reminds him of a park he visited often as a child with his mother and he smiles, remembering how they stayed too late one day and had to climb the gates after dark to get home – his mother getting stuck when the belt of her mac caught on the railings.